Chapter 1: His resolve
Her hair was lifeless, spread all over the pillow. What used to be her tanned skin was now a shadow of its former self; a sickly pale of tan like that of rotten pumpkins. Her eyes, full of life sunk into her skin, dark circles underneath. He forced himself not to notice the others, but – he clenched his fist- her ragged breath indicated what was inevitable if he did not do something.
Softly, he raked his fingers through her hair, its stiff, rigid form formed a scowl on his face. He remembered what it used to be, what she used to be. He held her hand for moment, rubbing the bony skin, the prominent veins of her hand. He pressed his lips on top of her hand.
Swiftly, he made his way out of the room, locked the door and hid the key just as the haunting sound of the door creaked. The loud bellow of singing crept up his arms, the faint swish of liquid in a bottle and the harried hands gripped corners. He clenched his fists, nails bit into his skin and the small amount of panic rose from beneath hidden depths of his soul were clamped down.
He watched in silent trepidation, in fear as a large burly figure, obscured by shadows parted like curtains to reveal the person that had changed his peaceful life. His eyes followed the pudgy hands, slick with sweat and other bodily liquids he would rather not know, gripped his shoulder. The heaving, nauseating breath enveloped his face as the figure leered down at him. A sickening sneer formed on the figure's face, stubby fingers caressed his cheek in an almost admiration-esque look, before it developed into an expression of a starving animal. The figure licked its own lips, salivating at his terrified face and a loud bellow of victory escaped the thin lips. He was hauled out of the door, the figure's putrid smell sickening him to the point he fell unconscious, the rough manhandling of his body was his last view.
He would have loved to stay in blissful darkness, its cold sheets embraced his terrified form, it was better than the reality he would soon face. Was peace, such blissful ecstasy only achieved in death? He smiled despondent, a startled cry erupted from his lips and a bright light shone on him. He peeked from his lids and stood frozen in fear at the hungry gazes directed at him. He was in a den full of starving hyenas, he wanted to run, call for help, he wanted to hide, but, he chose this path. It was for her, he chanted to himself, the only rope holding him from despair, depression. He chanted on, even when he was shown in full birthday suit in front of strangers; even when hands touched his skin; even when his skin was slapped and even when he was given to another stranger, it was all for her, it was his choice, his chosen path, and as the reality faded into black spots he kept on chanting.
The next time he woke, without the fog that seeped into his brain every waking hour, was to the steady sound of the heart monitor and the itching pain that crawled up his arms and torso. He was on his stomach, his head laid to the side and a breathing mask on his face. He did not know how long he laid, his face stared blankly at the machine, and his eyes followed the rise and fall of the lines. He did, however, notice the sudden change of temperature, a sudden wisp of wind, breaking through the commodity of his silent structure. Another thought passed by him but, he did not have the time to grab a hold of it and examine as a sharp pain on his back made its way known to him and all he could register was the increase noise of the monitor and his screams, which, oddly, felt hoarse in his throat.
He was on his back, blurred figures flitted pass his vision, hurried whispers followed them and another machine, not his own, blared loudly in the fogged silence. He heard shouts, yells, orders and sensed panic in those figures in white hurrying about like gigantic beetles. Stiffly, he guided his head to observe the figure that laid open on the bed, her mouth open, her face terrified but no noise came out. Her body jerked, twitched and convulsed on the crib, a loud crack rang in the room, her head had hit an object his fogged mind could not register and she laid still, the beep of her monitor droned into one long note. The white figures shook their head, some hand gestures and their eyes were now on him, he did not notice how his face twisted in fear or horror, his mind far too gone to feel his facial muscles moving. A sharp jolt followed thereafter, strangely, he did not hear his screams.
His limbs numbed by the cold laid limp by his side, his eyes panicked, darted from one corner to another and fell onto a slumped figure crouched on the floor. Yet, no matter how much his facial muscles twisted in fear and horror, or the strangled gurgle of his throat, his body did not obey. It moved by itself, in an automatic self-preservation system, stalked the crouched figure, waiting, watching, calculating, before his body found itself in the air, the figure's hands scraping at his throat. He crashed roughly on the ceiling and fell, gravity taking its hold, down, down, spiralling down that pointy lance the figure somehow conjured. Ten metres, his breath slowed, 6 metres, he could hear his heart beat at a steady pace, 3 metres, his eyes surveyed his opponent, ten centimetres and he lashed out.
It was blur of movements, his mind still fogged, but his body knew self-preservation and fought on. Blood was spilled on both sides, arms drenched it liquid red and the harsh breath echoed in the room. The figure stared up, resigned, hopeful, happy, he did not know why. With eyes closed, the figure smiled; blood splattered the walls.
Alone, in dark isolation, a young boy stared horrified at his hands, images of prior events flashed in his mind. He could still envision it, the slick, opaque, crimson that seeped through the wounds, splattered around the room and the overwhelming scent of metallic liquid dominated the area; the taste of the thick liquid as it accidently fell into his mouth, the metallic salt tingled his tongue. His opponent's eyes, the blank, dullness as the light left gradually, pools of his life created a bed for him, slick, wet, thick.
The boy curled into himself, a meagre defence against the world, against his demons, against himself. He could still hear the shouts, the claps of victory and of success ringing forever in his ears. He could still see that silver gleam in their eyes, the genial smile of ecstasy as they saw him, as they saw the limp body dragged ragged across the floor, the blood oozed after him. He could still feel the bundle of red strings, liquid in formation, as the figures in white pushed him through the doors, it leaked, it trickled, on the floor following him and seeped into his meagre clothing. He dared not raise his head for fear of the red, red monster slithering and waiting, before it struck and tore through his being. The boy let out a strangled cry of sorrow, of grief, of terror and horror, his opponent's eyes forever carved into his memory. He scratched at his skin, and watched in fascination as the skin peeled off, as the blood fell, but, it was not enough, he must atone for his sins, he would never do such things to an innocent person ever again.
The boy had resisted against the white cloaked figures for a while, he did not know for how long, but he was content, the red monster had abided and retreated…but, now he could no longer turn away or refuse or ignore his orders. This time, once more, the boy found himself in his birthday suit and instead of a cavern of hyenas a dark figure loomed over him, the leer on his face evident as his eyes raked his quivering form. He shut his eyes, his heart thudded against his chest, and he curled into himself again. Block out the light, erase reality, he wanted to fall back to that blissful darkness, ignorant to the world, safe from the people. Then, as if summoned, the words that was his silver lining, rushed to the forefront of his mind, the promise he had not acknowledge through the terror of his days.
It was for her, he chanted, it was all for her…he will protect her, and the boy sagged despite the situation and resigned himself to the rough hold of the figure. He could feel his tears running the tracks of his face, falling solemnly to the floor, his vision blocked by the broad man over him, on top of him. Shivers ran where the man touched, disgust erupted from his very being and hatred seeped out so deep the man flinched but the male resumed his composure and smacked him across the face, his lips sneered at the boy.
He closed his eyes, he did not want to see the image of the man over him, only to snap them open in silent terror. His gaze slid down and a horrific scream erupted from his throat as he saw the thing rip his muscles apart, tore him open, break his back. The ghastly most appalling thing about it was that he felt himself scream, but not in terror, he felt himself arched towards the male and the touch was not so disgusting, his mind fogged, his gaze murky and his breath came out in ragged noises. He begged, screamed at the man to stop or to continue, he could not remember, he was lost. He was appalled, horrified but another hit erased those thoughts from his mind and he was left blinded in unwanted pleasure.
He was in the room again, injured, exhausted, tired and horrified. The white cloaked figures surrounded his form, they said something but he did not acknowledge them, his mind was stuck at replay. The male had auburn hair, rugged beard, and the whiskers that had tickled his skin, the touch, the cruelty and sadism in his grey eyes as the male gazed at his worn form. The words before the male left and he fell unconscious stood in his mind and he snapped back into reality, the gaze of another grey eyed figure on him, an expectant look in her eyes.
"Will you resist?" She asked, almost caring, but he knew better than to judge the white coat of purity.
"No." His voice coarse and hoarse from prior activities.
His reply made the white figures smile, and in false gentleness guided him through the doors. He laid eyes on ten figures, moaning in agony on the floor, their faces twisted in frozen terror and anguish. He closed his eyes, his hands fisted, nails bit into his skin, blood trickled down his palms and he smiled. At least, he thought to himself, they will not suffer; they will fall into that blissful darkness, the welcomed cold embracing their forms; he envied it. It was mercy that would befall them, and he would be the one to guide them, the only one to suffer the brunt of the pain, the one to divert their attention from them to him, just like her, he mused.
The white room was once more decorated in liquid red.
The white figures had locked him in a white room, desolated of everything and anything. He had been feeling alarmingly exhausted, more so than the sessions he had with that man and those white figures. It was a bleary morning session with him dry heaving on the floor, acid ran up his throat and his stomach churned tortiously inside him. The episode had repeated itself, gradually increasing as his time wore on. His body had taken on that sickly pale colour with blue and green splotches embellished on his skin and he slept more, his body reacted unusual to the substances the figures had him try when it had not done so before, especially when it was the exact substance he had ever since his first awakening in the room. He could barely register as one of the white figures knelt before him, the hands lifted his thin garment above his head and he was left pondering the situation, his eyes stared blankly at the garment tainted in red.
A gasp was heard from the knelt figure and he was snapped back to reality. The figure hurriedly gestured for the others to come closer and voices erupted from the once silent group. He listened on.
"So, it worked?"
"It is not possible…not when we had assigned it as failure."
"Someone must've gone and done it. It seemed to work."
"The question is who should we show our gratitude?"
"I don't think anyone would have done it. What if it was biologically possible?"
"Don't be daft!"
"No…maybe, maybe you are right…"
"How are we going to continue? We had everything set and ready to go, we cannot back out now."
"You're right, the process is delicate and our hopes in him."
"So, what about that thing?"
"Get rid of it."
"Will we have him…?"
"We shall see. Annihilate the parasite ASAP and get to the room pronto!"
"Will do!"
He was hauled out the door of the white room, head spinning on the groups' comment about his situation. Parasite? Was that thing growing in his belly a parasite? He had seen some of the white figures with larger, wider bellies then he and they had come back with small, tiny, delicate bundle of skin. He wanted to see it, but as the grip on his shoulder snapped him out of the room he could not help but resign himself that he would be able to keep it. Maybe it would become something that he would deem precious? He could not ponder longer as a familiar shade of red was on the other side of the room and he shuddered in fear. The grip on his shoulder tightened and he was all but thrown towards that horrid man, strapped to the familiar cold sensation and the scream as a hand plunged itself inside was all too recognisable to him.
His eyes snapped open, mouth opened in a silent scream and his back arched at an unseen figure. He laid still as he forced his breathing to even, his heart beat to slow and his posture to relax, it would not do for his muscles to be stiff come morning, not that he could know – the white walls with no windows blocked any sunlight to sensitive substances scattered organised in the room.
A sound from the other side of the metal door alerted him of action, he forced his eyes to snap shut, and he forced his breathing to slow only seconds before the door slid open, its silent swish and the familiar wind caressing his skin.
The figure shuffled towards the occupant's bed, a clear clipboard with paper in one hand and a vial in the other. The figure grabbed a tool nearby and watched with impassive eyes as the liquid sunk into the container. With practiced fingers the figure lifted the limp limb of the patient and injected the vial inside. The figure stilled his hand and waited for the substance to sink in, the other hand ready to bandaged the injury. The figure waited, clipboard once again in one hand and the other with a pen, the eyes scanned the prone form and a slight stiffening of the shoulders, a jerk to the leg of the patient and the figure wrote it all down, noting the stillness of the body.
Grabbing a needle connected to a bag of another substance, the figure attached the right wrist with it, the left with a clear liquid and two patches on the exposed chest. The figure nodded, turned a machine on and left the room.
The boy let out a soft whimper, the only noise he would allow to make. He dared not move for fear of retribution and kept silent no matter how much the invading substances swam in his blood stream. No matter how much his skin felt like it was corroding from the inside. The boy's organs twisted tightly as another substance invaded before readjusting itself. He bit his tongue to prevent a scream and all through the night he writhed painfully, silently on his mattress, the substance that once was clear was a deep dark blue.
The boy did not know when he had fallen unconscious, into that blissful darkness he could call home. He did know that something was poking painfully at his side and his eyes snapped open, letting his body go through with the routine; slow down the breathing, slow down the heart beat and force his muscles to relax. The boy let his eyes examine the ceiling, the whiteness familiar to him. Another painful poke on his side and he turned his head to the side of the offending object. A stick. He glared at it, eyes following towards another limb connected to it and he let his eyes soften at the frightened face before him-no frightened faces before him.
The boy sat up, ignoring his protesting body and examined the room he was dumped randomly in, again. No doubt, one of the newbies had a mixed up again and were probably frantically searching for him with horror on their faces. He would have smiled if not for the ingrained habit to not do so.
The one that had poked him had moved, huddled in a corner with a group of other children, their glances roving over his frame. The boy scanned the room, noting that none of the children were any younger than he was and that left a slight relief for his conscious.
He got up from the floor, ignored his body shaking and walked over the children, one of them, older than he, stepped in front of him, a determined expression on her face. The boy raised a brow, he raised his hand and descended to the girl who had lowered her head, waiting for the blow. His eyes flashed with sadness and he gripped her shoulder and pulled her into his embrace. The boy knew, as he hummed to the girl's ear, that all of these children would be pitted against him, and he would as usual bring an end to their misery. For now, as he glanced around the children that had latched onto him, he would give the children the much needed love they deserved. He watched with silent eyes as they cried onto him, their murmurs of horror in their voices as they told him their experiences and he just sat with them and embraced them with the love he could give.
He hummed an old, long and lost tune of a time far away and let the children fall under its spell. He kissed every child's head like his mother had done and adjusted their sleeping forms.
The boy glanced at the children and headed towards the familiar sliding door and made his way inside. He stood still in his tracks. The room he had found himself in had rows upon rows of cradles, each contained with a small bundle, some large some small and his heart broke. He could see more than half, at least two thirds of the machines were still, unmovable.
The child made his way over to the closest one, his hand trembled as he traced the soft skin, over the lips tinted blue and the chest that had still mere moments before he had entered, he laid a shaky kiss on the forehead and let a lone tear fall. He dared not look at any other for fear of seeing the same fate as the one in front of him and forced himself to move towards another door on the side.
The hall way was deserted of the normally white-cloaked figures, his face closed off and he scanned the area, noting specific patches of the wall and decorations on his way. He let out a resigned sigh, his fingers trailed the wall as he trudged towards his room and made sure he would not get caught. A wrong few turns and stairs had him standing in awe at the first ray of sunlight in years, the warm sensation engulfing his skin and he let his whole body relax without the forcefulness he would always use. A slow smile shaped on his face and he closed his eyes to memorise the sensation, he had forgotten it, he had missed it and now he would memorise it to the best of his ability.
A crash to his left alerted him of someone and he turned his head to see. One of the white-cloaked figures stood in front of a large wooden double door –the first he had seen in years- as the figure shook, the face pale and eyes wide in horror. The child cocked his head to the side and glimpsed a brighter light than the window could ever commit and it continued on with tints of green before his view was blocked by a hysterical newbie –for the figure was newbie as none of the experts would be seen out of their composure- and his vision turned dark, a needle poked from the side of his neck.
The memory of the sun's rays dancing across his skin was of a distant and hazy feeling. Empty eyes, once a vivid emerald, dulled with the hollow of life stared across from his bed. Clouded voices surrounded his huddled form, the blurred visage of dreams and reality, of colours and of sound was lost to the child's senses.
A gloved hand, of many he had seen, came forth and gripped the skeletal wrist, nudging harshly forward, the dull-eyed child stumbled to his feet knees knobbing together and with his escort he made his way through the mazed hallways and bright walls to the steel, air-sealed doors.
The child had long since unintentionally memorised the layout of the area, repeated procedures in half-mind state had implanted a muscle and mind map. Unfortunately, others such as he, were not fortunate to attain the valuable asset and it brought a distant ache to the child's chest.
It was the same procedure. Smile, reassure and care, the child gazed at the gathered white blob with the same care in his room. The muscles pulled too tight, too high to be real and the empty child walked with a robotic air towards the centre surrounded with innumerable wires, tubes and liquids. The white blob soon followed.
Over and over. Again and again.
Every day, every night, every hour and every second of every year: smile, reassure, care, stare.
The situation was fine with the child, the reasoning obscured and lost in his memories, but it was the distant ache that thumped in his chest that had kept him compliant.
A glimpse of movement caught his attention, it was the motion that was unfamiliar and should to all account not be there. The distant ache thumped in his chest, his head turned to the side with slow trepidation and he almost choked at the sudden surge of emotion from within him, pain, anger, and sorrow.
A soft voice, small and high-pitched whispered repeatedly to his ears.
For her, it's for her.
The child cocked his head to the side, furrowed brows adorning his face.
For her, it's for her.
An obscure memory raced by his conscious.
For her, it's for her…it's ok, everything's going to be okay…I'll protect you…
The child's muscles tensed, the jaw rigid and unknown to him the rumble inside the walls was heard.
For her, it's for her…it's ok, everything's going to be okay…I'll protect you…
Some liquid substance started to trail down his cheeks, he did not know what it was.
For her, it's for her…it's ok, everything's going to be okay…I'll protect you…
The empty child bolted off his seat and all around him the pipes burst in symphony, all other liquids breaking through their barriers, but the child could not see, nor hear of the happenings. All he could hear was the soft voice repeating the words over and over again, his mind stuck in a white room with cradles filled with empty eyes of infants.
The child was snapped back to reality, the voice not faded, but distant and the first emotion of many appeared dancing in his eyes. Shock and bewilderment.
He turned his attention across the room and saw his target. With a determined aim he made his way, delicate arms cradling the small body to his skeletal chest. Shaking, he dashed towards the exit, a hazy objective but clear instinct to go, go and go.
The floors cracked as ripples made waves, destroying the foundation, systems were overrode with liquid and the walls fell. Frustrated at what his instincts had tried to indicate, he could feel the substance trail his cheeks once again. He came across a door, twisted the knob and smacked into the door. He yelled, voice hoarse from lack of use and the door cracked and crumbled.
The child came across the children from his hazy memories and three cradles, one empty and the other filled with breathing infants. The child admitted defeat to his instincts and let it take over, his whole being filled with resolve and power of some kind calmed his erratic heart. The once dull-eyes had turned back to its vivid emerald had scanned his surroundings, capturing the children and with a smile he released a breath.
The world burst with colour.
Somehow, with a pack-full of children and infants, he was inside a non-descriptive truck. Logic had hid in the dark corners of his mind and adrenaline dominated with the elation of the sun's rays dancing across his skin, he slammed on the accelerator.
A/N: It's not a new story, I tell you. I wrote this story in 2013, and haven't written a new chapter since 2016. I thought, that if I post this, I might have the motivation to write more chapters. You know, like read the PJO series again.
